I have a special fountain pen. It’s an Art Deco original, a Parker Duofold in a glorious jazz pattern, with a gold nib. It’s been used for all the major signatures of my adult life: marriage register, birth certificate, job acceptances. It writes beautifully with a broad, stylish and bold line.
At least it did.
It came out of the paternal cufflink/watch box for a signature today, and the nib was at a glorious wonk. The pen, dear readers, had been toddlered. That dangerous moment of quiet when a Grifflet is unseen and unheard has claimed its latest victim.
Annoyed, disappointed, saddened, yes.
But also, with warmth, one of the moments of being a Dad. That’s what happens when a gentleman of two is trying to emulate his old man by signing (in this case) the top of a dressing table.
I’d rather have him than the pen.
(Although both would be even better!)